


Coffee Shop Confessional

by patster223



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Father Lantom is a barista, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lantom doesn't expect to find peace and quiet working in a New York City coffee shop. He <em>also</em> doesn't expect a masked vigilante to fall through his window. But Lantom is pretty good at rolling with the unexpected.</p><p>Coffee shop AU in which Father Lantom is a barista, and Matt Murdock goes to him for confession anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Shop Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> While talking to me about Daredevil, my sister referred to Lantom as a "priest/barista" and, well, I couldn't resist writing this AU.

Lantom never thought that running Confessional would be peaceful. A far cry from life in the church, sure – being responsible for someone’s coffee order is a lot different than being responsible for their _soul._ But still, he owns a coffee shop in _New York._ He never held any illusions of finding tranquility here.

And yet, while he doesn’t come to work seeking peace and quiet, Lantom still hadn’t expected _this_ : a masked man throwing himself through the window right as he’s closing up shop.

The shattering of glass causes Lantom to startle, dropping coffee grounds to the floor he just swept. Although, coffee grounds are probably the most manageable thing staining his floor at the moment. Broken glass and a bleeding masked man will be a _bit_ harder to clean up.

The masked man in question groans in what sounds like frustration more than pain, and then proceeds to spit blood onto the linoleum. Lantom grimaces, reflects that this is _probably_ a good time to kick the man out of his shop. But-

But you hear a lot of things working a coffee shop. Stories trickle in with the morning rush, and among them, Lantom has heard this particular folk tale: if you cry for help in Hell’s Kitchen, a masked man will hear you and come.

Lantom isn’t stupid. He knows _exactly_ who is bleeding all over the floor of his shop. And he’s curious – a man in a mask raises a lot of questions, and Lantom has always been the type to seek answers.

So, mildly, as if this very man _hadn’t_ just smashed through his window, Lantom says, “Looks like you went the distance. Though, if you’re looking to lose the people who did this to you, breaking through my window may not be the most inconspicuous way to do it.”

The masked man tenses, immediately throws himself to his feet. As soon as he stands, however, he nearly tips over, only just managing to throw an arm over a booth to steady himself.

“Easy,” Lantom says, putting his hands up in what’s hopefully a placating _I’m an old barista who doesn’t want to start anything_ gesture. “No need to run off. I’m hardly going to pick a fight with the man who came in through the window, am I?”

The man tilts his head toward Lantom, runs his fingers along the wood of the booth he’s leaning on. After a long moment, the corner of his lips quirk up. “For most people, that’s a good reason to _start_ a fight.”

“I’m not a violent sort.” He lets the unspoken _not like you are_ hang in the air between them.

Lantom worries his lip between his teeth, but- but the man hasn’t run off yet, so now seems as good a time as any to add: “Besides, trying to fight you would almost certainly deny me the irony of offering the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen a latte from a coffee shop called Confessional.”

At his name – or his moniker, rather, something assigned to him against his will – the masked man stands straighter, moves his feet apart. Like he’s preparing himself for a fight.

“You know who I am?” the man asks.

Lantom gives a minute shrug. When the masked man doesn’t respond to the gesture, Lantom adds, “I’ve heard stories.”

“The stories about me aren’t always nice ones,” the man says stiffly. “They certainly don’t inspire people to offer me _lattes_.”

“Everyone who comes here is welcome to a latte. Regardless of their actions. Though,” Lantom muses, “I do generally prefer that they use the door.”

The masked man’s lips twitch again as he huffs out a surprised laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He looks as though he’s tempted to say more, but then he tilts his head _just_ so -- and his body language transforms all over again, as if he’s preparing himself for battle. Without another word, he leaps out the broken window and scrambles up the side of Lantom’s shop like a man _possessed_.

Devil of Hell’s Kitchen indeed.

 

***

 

The next time the masked man enters Confessional, it’s thankfully not through the window.

Unfortunately, is _is_ through the ceiling.

“I didn’t know this building had roof access,” Lantom says, gaping first at the broken ceiling tile, then at the masked man who’d just dropped in from above.

“It doesn’t. Or it’s not supposed to. But old air vents,” the man explains vaguely, clutching tightly at his side. Lantom wonders if there’s a wound under that hand – wonders if he’ll have to spend another night mopping up blood off the floor.

For some reason, the thought barely fazes Lantom -- this is already becoming disturbingly routine.

Not any less mysterious though. He glances at the ceiling. _Now how did_ you _know about the air vents?_ I _didn’t even know about them -- until you tore them up._

“You’re allowed to enter through the _front door_ you know,” Lantom says mildly. “No need to destroy my shop every time you need sanctuary.”

The man chuckles. He’s not – not at _ease_ around Lantom, but he at least seems to have identified him as _not a threat._ Lantom wonders how rarely that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is able to find someone who fits that description.

“‘Sanctuary,’” the masked man repeats. “A coffee shop named Confessional. Religious sort?”

Lantom raises an eyebrow. Is this what the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen does when he decides that you’re not a threat? Bursts in through the ceiling, starts asking questions as if such a line of inquiry could ever be two-sided?

And what does it say about Lantom that he actually finds that _endearing_? Though perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. It’d been that way when he led confirmation too – the children who asked _questions_ were always his favorites.

Lantom sighs at the memory. He can practically feel the weight of those robes on him now, even when he knows that he wears only an apron these days. “I’m Catholic,” he says wearily.

The masked man hums in thought. Lantom gets the feeling he wants to say more – but then another _head tilt,_ a tensing of the shoulders, a shaking of the head. And the masked man scrambles back up into the air vents before Lantom can so much as blink an eye.

 

***

 

The third time the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen enters Confessional, he finally takes the dang latte.

Lantom isn’t sure if the concession is due to his own efforts to earn the man’s trust. He thinks it’s more likely due to the fact that the masked man is looking more run down than ever. What skin his costume leaves showing is pale, sickly; every moment seems to cost him another ragged breath, another ounce of energy.

Being the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen seems to take its toll. Just _looking_ at him makes Lantom feel the need for some caffeine.

“Here,” he says, setting the cups down. “Yours is the blue one.”

The masked man frowns. He slowly reaches his hand toward the red mug, scowls when Lantom shakes his head.

“Colorblind?” Lantom guesses.

“Yeah,” the masked man says with a laugh that’s equal parts relief and _mischief._ He reaches for the correct mug, takes a sip, and his sigh is _satisfied._ The sound of someone arriving at respite and release.

The sound brings back the weight of those robes all over again, but it doesn’t quite feel as burdensome this time.

“So,” Lantom says, deciding that he’s restrained his curiosity for long enough. “Why now? Why here?”

The masked man’s posture turns from _relief_ to _guarded_ all over again. Lantom’s not sure what he expected. Sure, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen may trust Lantom with his latte, but above all, he is a man in a mask: a man with secrets.

“What do you mean?” the masked man says.

“I mean,” Lantom says, “what makes a vigilante like yourself decide that _this_ is your preferred coffee shop? I don’t suppose it’s because you feel bad about the window? Or the ceiling?”

“Ah,” the man breathes, in a way that confirms Lantom’s suspicions that the masked man hadn’t thought about the property damage since it happened.

“Ah,” Lantom says back. “Don’t worry – it’s not like I expect compensation. Building insurance paid for most of it. I don’t suppose you can go around signing checks as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen anyway.”

The masked man smirks. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

“And now we’re talking about something completely different than what I asked you – you’re avoiding the question. You seem to be rather good at that,” Lantom points out.

The masked man doesn’t look at Lantom. He takes another sip of his latte, runs his hand along the wood of the table.

“People who keep my secrets get hurt,” he says quietly. “You don’t want to add yourself to that list.”

“I probably don’t. Hasn’t stopped me from wondering about you though.” Lantom drinks from his tea, grimaces. He hadn’t gone for a latte – not at this time of night -- but even the caffeine in this will probably keep him up until morning.

“Do you want to know why this coffee shop is named Confessional?” Lantom says, when the masked man stays silent. “My father was a religious man -- though not a particularly _good_ one, at least in the eyes of the law. He was always in trouble with one thing or another. In his later years, he built this café to be a home to every criminal in Hell’s Kitchen. It was a place to share stories, to trade secrets. Only caveat being that none of those secrets left the building.”

The masked man’s lip twitches. “Just like a confessional.”

“Precisely. Irony is, I used to be a priest myself – seems I couldn’t escape it, even by coming here.”

The masked man makes a little humming noise, like something’s been clarified for him. “That explains the smell: you’re a priest.”

“Was a priest,” Lantom gently corrects him. “I just own a coffee shop these days – one that’s on the up-and-up now, I might add. And what do you mean, ‘the smell?’”

The man takes a careful sip of his latte, and Lantom can practically see him debating whether to speak or not. _Trust, not trust; not a threat, threat._ It’s like a roulette wheel is spinning in the masked man’s mind, and Lantom can only hope that the outcome is a favorable one for him.

“Priests have a particular smell,” the masked man finally says. “Wood polish, dust, sunlight that’s filtered through glass. It…lingers, like a lot of things don’t. I just assumed that you went to church a lot. Why aren’t you a priest anymore?”

Lantom frowns. Their dialogue may finally be two-sided, but he can’t help but notice that the masked man’s answers are a lot less _satisfying_ than his own. Priests can be identified by their smell now?

 _Former priests,_ Lantom corrects himself.

“Crisis of faith,” Lantom says, remembering – Rwanda and _why this, Lord_ and the _blood,_ the _blood_ from that execution that stained the earth – and closing his eyes. “Probably would have passed given time, but it happened to coincide with my father’s death. Seemed like as good a time as any to seek a different path.”

The masked man is quiet for a long time. He takes a glove off, places it around the body of the coffee cup that’s probably not even lukewarm by now.

“And – and how do you know if your current path is the right one?” the masked man says at last. “That what you’re doing is the right thing?”

“You don’t,” Lantom says, shaking his head. “We all hope that we’re on the correct path, but the truth of the matter is, it’s often impossible to tell in the moment. All you can do is ask yourself if your path is the righteous one, the one that God chose for you. The path that allows you to help other people.”

“It is,” the masked man says confidently, no longer even _pretending_ to be talking about Lantom. “But – you know what I do? How violent it is?”

“Need I remind you how we first met?”

“Fair enough.” The masked man shakes his head. “That kind of violence…My grandmother once said that the—that me, and my father, that we had the Devil inside us. And when I fight—when I fight, I know _exactly_ what she meant. So tell me how _that_ can be God’s will?”

Lantom runs a palm across the wooden partition of the booth they’re sitting in, thinks about _wood polish_ and _dust_ smells. Wonders if those smells are the ones he can’t _quite_ get out of this shop, no matter how thoroughly he cleans it.

“God is not a pacifist,” Lantom sighs. “His will is not always peaceful. But maybe this is a discussion you should be having with your priest.”

The masked man frowns at his coffee cup, squirms slightly in his seat. “He wouldn’t understand. When I confess, I can tell that he – he’s afraid of me. He smells like sweat when I talk, his breathing quickens.”

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen can literally smell fear. Now there’s a thought.

“I just make lattes these days,” Lantom reminds him – reminds _both_ of them, because he can wear prayer beads and work at a coffee shop named Confessional, but that doesn’t make him a man of the church anymore.

The masked man tilts his head, then quickly finishes his coffee. “You offered me sanctuary last time. Does that offer still stand?”

“If you need it, yes. Like I said, anyone is welcome here.”

The masked man nods.

“Thank you, Father,” he says, and leaves – through the ceiling, _again_ – before Lantom can correct him.

 

***

 

The masked man comes back several times after that day. Never through the front door, unfortunately.

But it’s not through the window again, so really, Lantom will take what he can get.

Their routine – if something so unusual can ever be called routine – is fairly standard. The masked man will drop in the from the ceiling – out of breath, pale, sometimes even bloody – after closing time, and Lantom will bring him a coffee. And then they’ll-

Well, it’s confession really. Lantom isn’t a priest anymore, but he’s not so foolish as to be ignorant of what the masked man comes here for. Repentance, guidance, _answers._ And priest or not, Lantom has never found it in himself to turn away someone looking for answers.

And, well. He can’t deny that he’s still curious about this masked man, about this Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Listening for crime?” Lantom asks.

The masked man’s head is cocked in a familiar gesture – usually the one he makes right before he dashes out of the café, billy clubs at the ready. Lantom’s seen the gesture enough times to recognize it as _listening_ , though what he listens for is beyond Lantom.

And, given the masked man’s slow shaking of his head, he doesn’t seem inclined to tell Lantom any time soon.

“Then what are you thinking?” Lantom asks, letting it go – for now.

“I’m thinking,” the masked man says, a smile creeping onto his face. “That I’ve found a way to repay you for that window.”

Only seconds after he speaks, two men burst through the door, brandishing guns – the new automatics that have been polluting these streets lately.

Using automatics to rob a coffee shop just after closing? It would seem that despite the efforts of masked man, this city has been _upended_ with chaos since the bombings.

“This is a hold up!” one of men shouts.

“Is it?” the masked man says, standing slowly from his place in the booth.

The criminals freeze when they see who they’re up against – when they see that they’ve blundered into a hold-up of the shop that holds the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

The smile on the masked man’s face is more of a feral grin by now. “It seems you know who I am. That’s good. You should also know that if I throw this-” he unsheathes a billy club “-I can take out your guns and knock you both out before you can even blink. Do I have your attention?”

Two terrified nods. Lantom eyes the masked man, for the first time seeing that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen may not have been an inaccurate name for the man putting on this kind of display: this kind of _anger._

“Good,” the masked man says, pointing his billy club at the would-be-robbers. “This shop is protected. Off-limits to you and anyone else looking to rob it. Understood?”

The robbers only sputter. They say nothing, stand still as statues with fear before the masked man repeats himself-

“Do you _understand_?”

The robbers nod, trembling under the thunderous roar that is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen’s voice. They flee the shop without looking back.

Lantom raises an eyebrow as the masked man sheathes his club, sits back down. “I can see what you meant,” he says carefully.

“What do you mean?”

“That devil inside you that you were talking about.”

The masked man grimaces, seems to almost _shrink_ under Lantom’s words. As if only a moment ago he hadn’t been _grinning_ as he readied himself to face the robbers.

“Do you want me to leave?” the masked man asks quietly.

Lantom shakes his head. “To tell the truth, I don’t know whatI think of your methods. I certainly _don’t_ approve of what just happened – and I ask you not to do anything similar again within these walls. But no, you don’t have to leave.”

“Some people-” the masked man swallows heavily “-some people can’t handle what I do. Sure, maybe they can handle it in the abstract, but…when they have to face the reality of it – they don’t stick around. And they’re right not to.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

The masked man’s smile is desperately unhappy, _lost._ “Yes. Too – too many times lately,” he says, his hands trembling against his coffee mug. “I don’t know what to _do_ anymore. I tried to kill a man. And maybe it turns out you were right, that murder is not in my heart. But for a moment, I thought it _was_. How can I trust myself to choose the correct path now, when I nearly did something like that?”

Lantom thinks about getting up to brew himself something stronger than tea. A latte, perhaps. The caffeine doesn’t seem to matter right now – Lantom doubts he’ll be sleeping much tonight.

For now, he sips at his tea. “Do you want to know something? Something they don’t say enough in confirmation or in sermons?”

“What?”

“That it’s okay to doubt,” Lantom says. “Oh, sure, doubt can be dangerous, can even put you on a path that you never anticipated walking down. But faith is persevering _despite_ doubt, despite that devil inside you -- or maybe even because of it.”

The masked man takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s not easy anymore,” he says. He’s clutching the mug so tightly Lantom is surprised it doesn’t crack. “I don’t know if it ever _was_.”

“I don’t know if it’s supposed to be,” Lantom says. He hesitates – despite their many conversations, he’s never actually touched the masked man, has always allowed him that distance – but finally places a hand on the man’s shoulder.

The man startles, but leans into the touch ever so slightly before shaking it off. “Thank you,” he says, standing. “If I don’t see you again – thank you.”

The man speaks as if this will be their final meeting. As if everything is about to change.

For both of their sake’s, Lantom hopes that he’s wrong.

 

***

 

Lantom doesn’t see the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen again after that night.

He _does_ , however, see Matthew Murdock.

Three weeks after his last meeting with the masked man – long after Lantom had looked at the paper only to find _Daredevil_ staring back at him – Lantom hears a familiar voice during the morning rush:

“Oh, Foggy, not here.”

Lantom’s had enough conversations with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to recognize that voice. But when he looks up, he only sees a man – a _blind_ man – frowning at the person leading him into Confessional.

“Yes, here!” the other person – Foggy, apparently – says. “We need a new place to go to, and this one has vanilla mochas.”

“So does Starbucks,” the not-currently-masked-man mumbles.

“Starbucks, really? Support the small businesses of Hell’s Kitchen, Murdock! The coffee here is sweet as _sin_ – pun _definitely_ intended. Besides…we’re trying to move forward right? Changing up our coffee run – I don’t know – maybe it will help.”

Lantom focuses on keeping the line moving, forces himself to tune out the rest of the conversation – he’s curious, but he knows when something isn’t meant for his ears.

Besides, he remembers the tremble of Murdock’s voice when he spoke of the ones who’d left him. If Confessional is to be the place where Murdock tries to rebuild what he’s lost, then-

Then Lantom has already done more good than he expected to working here.

“What’ll you have?” he says to Murdock, when it’s the young man’s turn to order. “Latte?”

Murdock winces. “Just the dark roast please,” he mumbles.

“Sure thing. Can I have a name for that?”

Murdock sighs, then allows the corner of his mouth to twitch into a smile. “Matthew,” he says.

Matthew. _Gift of God._ It’s a good name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Matthew,” Lantom says.

Foggy’s eyebrows are raised at the both of them during this interaction. Lantom smiles, _well_ aware that Matthew is going to be questioned about this the moment he sits down.

Truth be told, he’s just glad Matthew has someone who cares enough to interrogate him in the first place.

When he’s finished Matthew’s order and called him to the counter, Lantom places the coffee in his hand with a murmured, “Colorblind, huh?”

Matthew coughs. “Uh…emphasis on the blind.”

Lantom can piece together approximately how _that_ works: the man figured out he was a priest by his _smell_ , for goodness’ sake.

“Secret’s safe with me. I’m just glad you found your path safely. And that you're finally entering this shop through the _door_. I'm not sure how much more my ceiling tiles could take. Though...I do think we need to talk about that new costume of yours at some point,” he says, because really, _Devil’s horns,_ Matthew?

Matthew grins, takes a sip of his coffee. ‘I look forward to it, Father.”

Lantom shakes his head as Matthew returns to his friend. He allows himself a moment to watch them converse. The set of Matthew’s shoulders is finally relaxed. He doesn’t speak to his friend in the pained confessions that he gave Lantom, or the growl that he gave the robbers. Instead, Matthew _smiles_ as he talks now _._ There’s something genuine, pure – something _good_ – in that smile.

Lantom can’t help but smile himself as he throws himself back into the morning rush. No, there’s no peace and quiet to be found in a New York coffee shop, but-

But this is somehow much better.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Coffee Shop Confessional](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8775913) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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